


The Wenceslas Affair

by laughingacademy



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Prompt Fic, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-22
Updated: 2006-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:35:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingacademy/pseuds/laughingacademy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The unexpected visitor staggered in and slumped back against the door as it closed, face pale. His glasses were completely steamed up by the time he took them off. "Headquarters tried to reach you some hours ago, but the weather…" Kuryakin winced and gestured eloquently. "So, Mr. Waverly sent me with this—" he pulled an improbably crisp envelope from an inside breast pocket "—and his apolologies for intruding on your vacation." Solo smothered a smile as the Russian frowned. "That did not come out right."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wenceslas Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [periwinkle27](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=periwinkle27).



> This story is set pre-series.
> 
> Prompts: banter, vacation home, snow.

"Mr. Kuryakin. Sorry to pull you away from the party."

"That's quite all right, sir. I escaped a heated dispute about the date of Saint Stephen's Day."

Waverly frowned ruminatively. "Boxing Day, isn't it?"

"In the West, yes. The Eastern churches celebrate it a day later."

"Oh, yes. Well, that's not why I asked you in here…"  


*

  
_"I really can't stay (Baby, it's cold outside)…"_

"Amen," Solo said, saluting the record player with a mug of spiked hot chocolate.

It had promised to be a very merry Christmas indeed. The Old Man, miraculously, had given him most of the week off. Aunt Amy, who was wintering in Rio with her current paramour, had offered her favorite nephew the use of her Vermont cabin. And Holly Bow, a luscious redheaded stewardess, had jumped at the chance to play snow bunny with her good friend Napoleon.

The house was stocked with firewood and canned goods, and Aunt Amy had called her caretaker to make sure that the gas and water would be on. Napoleon had arranged for the delivery of fresh food, a goodly amount of alcohol, and, in deference to Holly's oddball sense of humor, six different recordings of "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

Solo had made a quick pass through the Christmas Eve party at Headquarters (ducking out as the Section Santa Singers were warming up), and swung by his apartment for his bags. Then, just as he was making a final sweep for forgotten items, the phone had rung.

"Sorry, but I'm snowed in at O'Hare," Holly had sighed. "'Fraid you'll have to celebrate Christmas without me."

"That's too bad. I was looking forward to finding something nice in your stocking."

"Don't you mean your stocking?"

"Trust me, I know exactly whose stocking I'm referring to."

Once Napoleon had hung up he had considered his options. Manhattan, or Vermont? Find company, or go— okay, he was not making that joke. Standards must be maintained.

In the end, he'd opted for country solitude. Female companionship was never too hard to find, but the available candidates were too high maintenance for a trip like this, and chances for a nice, quiet getaway were few and far between.

He'd reached the cabin early enough to start a fire and unpack before a storm—possibly the same one that had grounded Holly—downed the phone and power lines and began doing its best to bury the place in snow. After dining from the hamper that had been waiting on the porch, he'd found the wind-up record player he remembered from previous visits and put on some music to drown out the worst of the wind's shrieks.

Ricardo Montalban was telling Esther Williams, _"I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice…"_ when someone pounded on the door.

Startled, he set down his mug and fetched his gun from the bedroom. A peek through a curtain revealed one man in a long coat, hat, scarf, glasses, and gloves. Solo juggled the odds on his way to the door: it was unlikely but not inconceivable that THRUSH or some other unfriendly had tracked him here, and it was suspicious that he hadn't heard a car pull up. On the other hand, why would an attacker bother to knock…?

"Mr. Solo? It's Illya Kuryakin. The word is 'solstice.'"

"Kuryakin?" Puzzled by the appearance of Waverly's Soviet protégé but mollified by the use of that week's alert code, Napoleon tucked his Special into his waistband and unlocked the door. "What are you doing here? Get in before all the heat escapes."

The unexpected visitor staggered in and slumped back against the door as it closed, face pale. His glasses were completely steamed up by the time he took them off. "Headquarters tried to reach you some hours ago, but the weather…" Kuryakin winced and gestured eloquently. "So, Mr. Waverly sent me with this—" he pulled an improbably crisp envelope from an inside breast pocket "—and his apolologies for intruding on your vacation." Solo smothered a smile as the Russian frowned. "That did not come out right."

"I got the gist." Napoleon studied the envelope. "What is it?"

"I was told only that it was top clearance and high-priority."

"Ah. Why don't you go in the kitchen to thaw while I unwrap my present. Whoa, steady. By the way, where's your car? Or did you use a flying sleigh?"

"Sleigh?" Kuryakin blinked at him, absently brushing ice from a sleeve. "Oh. No, I drove most of it, walked the rest. The car is in a drift," he concluded, speech slowing as his explanation ended.

"Got stuck? Bad luck. Here, sit down, I'll pour you a hot drink."

"I am fine. You should read that."

Solo poured the remaining hot chocolate from the saucepan into a mug and, after a moment's thought, topped it off with a generous tot of scotch. "Never mind cleaning your coat, just take it off, and sit down before you fall over. Here."

Groaning, the Russian finally condescended to sit at the kitchen table. "Really, I am fine. Please, Mr. Waverly said it was important."

"Right. I'll be in the next room. Yell if you need anything."

Once Napoleon had managed the ticklish business of opening the envelope without triggering the self-immolation device, he began skimming the onionskin sheets inside. Halfway through, he whistled without realizing it, turned back to the beginning, and began re-reading. No wonder Waverly had been on fire to get this to him…

He'd spread the pages across the desk and begun jotting equations in a notebook before he remembered the half-frozen courier in the kitchen—the one with a Ph.D. in quantum mechanics, according to his file. Kuryakin wasn't cleared for the specifics of this affair, but it'd be stupid not to take advantage of his expertise, and if Solo couldn't frame the right questions to get information without letting the cat out of the bag then he'd step down as CEA.

"Hey, Kuryakin…"

His visitor, still in coat for God's sake, was resting his head on his folded arms, the half-empty mug of now cooled chocolate a few inches away. Eyes rolling, Napoleon started to shake him awake—then swore as he felt the damp chill under his fingers.

_Waxy skin, stiff movements, slow speech, drowsiness, irrational behavior—Solo, you stupid, stupid bastard…_  


*

  
Illya Kuryakin woke up in Hell. Which was manifestly unfair—he'd admitted he was a godless communist during the discussion after the carols, but here he was, flames dazzling his eyes, his whole body aching, something weighing his chest…Wait.

It was a hot water bottle in a flannel pillowcase.

There was a scraping noise, and then a face blocked the fire. "Kuryakin? You awake?"

Illya opened his mouth without the least idea of what he was going to say. "Ow."

"Yeah, I know. Just lie easy and breathe deep."

The figure—Napoleon Solo—vanished as a sheet was drawn over Illya's face. He nearly protested, _But I'm not dead,_ before he realized it was intended to trap the steam rising from the bowl of hot water by his head. Reassured, he took deep breaths and fell asleep without noticing.

The next time he woke he was much more comfortable and almost entirely lucid.

"So, do you remember why you're here?"

Illya sipped his sweet tea. "Of course. I was making a delivery for Mr. Waverly. Why?"

"Last night, you kept asking, 'What am I doing here?' And when I'd answer, you'd shake your head and say, 'But what am I _doing_ here?' Got monotonous after a while."

"Sorry."

"That's all right. Same thing happened to me in Korea, and apparently I spent hours bemoaning the girl I left behind. Never could figure out which one I was talking about."

The pause that followed was broken when Illya set down his mug and blurted, "I don't know what I'm doing here. I'm on the other side of the world—physically, politically, ecumenically—from home, and I nearly died in a stupid car accident while playing postman. This cock-up is the closest I've come to a proper mission!"

Illya abruptly realized he was all but shouting at the Chief Enforcement Agent for North America…who merely tilted his head and said, "Sounds like you want out of section four."

"Do not misunderstand. The lab work is absorbing, and I realize that my nationality creates…complications, in this country. But I was a member of section two in Europe, and I have been looking forward to working with an American field agent."

"And showing us Yanks that the _Rodina_ has a human face?" Napoleon asked.

Illya raised his eyebrow at Napoleon's Russian, then shrugged. "There is that. But mainly…because I enjoy it. And I am a _good_ agent. Despite the present evidence to the contrary."  


*

  
"So why isn't he in section two? God knows he's bright enough, and tough."

"Well, Mr. Solo, as he said himself, the fact that he is the only Soviet in the American chapter of U.N.C.L.E. creates certain problems. For one, it's difficult to find a suitable partner for him; for another, if I do put him in the field and he's killed, there are those in his homeland who would accuse us of using him as cannon fodder."

"Is that all?"

"I would think that's enough. Am I to understand that you see a way though this impasse?"

"I _am_ the way through this impasse…which is what you intended all along, isn't it?"

"I didn't anticipate that it would take a brush with death for Mr. Kuryakin to catch your eye, but however it happened, I am glad the idea occurred to you."

"Merry Christmas to you too, sir."


End file.
